


"1965"

by hillbillied



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Vietnam, Diners, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Fluff and Humor, Gay Rights, Greasers, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protests, Rating May Change, University, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America, 1965: Sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll. <i>Or</i> vanilla milkshakes, exhausting writing sessions, and a distinct <i> lack</i> of sex and drugs in David Webster's case. Because finding inspiration for your first book can be difficult - Finding inspiration for your first book if you happen to be an aspiring author whose been served the easy road in life up until then is harder still. With only a year to complete his first novel and the clock ticking, Webster desperately turns for help in the most unlikely of places; with unruly greaser Joseph Liebgott.</p><p>But a  lot can change in a year,  especially amongst all the loud music, civil rights punch-ups, and questionable wars going on overseas. And with a hot-headed protester, a diner mop-boy, a couple of draft dodgers, and one particular rebel-without-a-cause involved, it's sure to be one Hell of a ride.<br/> <br/>A.K.A "1965" a debut semi-autobiographical novel by <i>David Kenyon Webster.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I made a [graphic for this AU](http://malarked.tumblr.com/post/134289860928/i-got-the-draft-on-my-ass-the-countrys-in-the) a while ago on tumblr...and it did surprisingly well! It's a little late but I've finally decided to bite the bullet and write this story! Hope you guys enjoy it!
> 
>  
> 
> **Important note:** I intend for this to be written from Webster's perspective (though not in first person). This means the writing may be somewhat pretentious at points, especially at the beginning here before Web has time to grow and develop into the dork we all know and love. So, yeah, just keep it in mind that I'm trying to write this as Webster would, describing things as he would perceive them!

**"1965"**  
_A debut semi-autobiographical novel by **David Kenyon Webster.  
**_ (First draft - October, 1964)

 

 

"As students of literature, the expansion of your own narrative horizons is of the upmost importance.

 _You are poets in the making_ ; you are the raw stone present before the revelation of Michael Angelo's _David_. Your voices are the doctorates of the future, and the language you create will shape the days to come from here on out.

With such creativity, such drive, being the central weapon of your arsenal - how can we possibly devise a test of your literary skills? How can a single mind, even one that is kin with yours in its own love and respect for novella, be the judge of such a limitless well of potential? It is difficult at best, I promise.

But test we must, and test we shall. Not in an exam hall, Lord forbid, no - This is a challenge of the mind, not the memory. And it is one I know each and every one of you will embrace and empower within yourselves over the course of this year to come!"

The Professor took a moment to clear his throat; a pause for maximum impact. The lecture theatre was electric with excitement, the onlookers' breath held taught in their chests. All eyes fell on him, and him alone.

"I am delighted to reveal the final - and most stimulating - assignment of your English literature major. And one that I hope will set many of you on a bright and compelling path towards the future."

Chests itching with anticipation were pressed flushed to the wooden tables, as if leaning just a fractional distance closer to the stage would expose the information faster.

"As with many of literature's great minds, freedom is the fuel for creativity." The Professor admitted, hands folded neatly behind his back, "And as such, for your potential to truly flourish in this task, there will be only the barest bones of a brief."

Several gasps could be heard in the audience, sparked by such shocking and heart-thumping words. It was both the best - and worst - of what they could have expected.

"By this time next year," The Professor concluded, finally coming to the penultimate climax of his speech, "You will each hand in to me your first completed novel, detailing a topic of your choosing. At least 50,000 words, I would expect. And written entirely by you."

The theatre erupted in murmurs and shrieks of delight, students whispering between themselves and exchanging glances of anxious excitement. It lasted but a moment, however, as the Professor's chuckle and raised hand called for a wave of silence to flood the room.

"And remember," He echoed, lowering his hand to grip the desk before him, "The only limit is your imagination and drive. The skills to complete this task lie within you. You are each poets in the making. And each of you has the ability to present something truly exceptional after this year is complete."

As he straightened up, briefcase in hand and battered fedora placed upon his head, he smiled at his eager students.

"Do not disappoint. I await your submissions with gusto."

 

 

 

 

 

David Kenyon Webster, an English Literature major in his final year at Harvard University, exited the lecture theatre with a glowing smile on his face. His stride was confident, his head held high. The books folded under his arm were pristine and the collar around his neck stood perfectly straight.

He was, in his own _personal_ opinion, a model student.

A description he aspired above, in fact; he just didn't like to brag. But with the assignment his senior lecturer had just revealed to him, he knew he finally had the tools to rise above the brand of 'model student' he had found himself sporting these past few years.

No, this task was his chance to reach a much more prestigious rank.

 _Harvard's most famous author_. Signed immediately after the success of his debut novel - title pending - that had made waves in the intellectual community for its wit and modern twist on classic writing. Renowned and respected, a true model student - no, model _gentleman_ , to which classes would aspire to be like for years to come.

David liked the sound of that. He liked the sound of that very much.

With a spring in his step, pristine books under his arm, and starched collar protruding from his knitted sweater, he made his way down the stone steps of Harvard's largest building. He waved his goodbyes to his classmates and called excitedly to them across the neatly trimmed grass, exchanging hand-shakes and wishes of good luck as they each departed. Heading their separate ways, forging their own paths into the wide world.

It was the fresh start Webster could only have dreamed of. And he didn't intend to let _anything_ hinder his mission of writing the most brilliant debut novel possible.

The world was his oyster, to quote the Merry Wives of Windsor. (Shakespeare really did understand him, despite their centuries apart.) It was his time to claim it as his own, to grasp hold of his potential and mould it into something truly spectacular.

He was ready for greatness; he expected greatness to be ready for him.

 

 

 

 

 

Greatness, apparently, was not ready for David. Not even close.

Whether it was hiding specifically from him or whether it had skipped town entirely he couldn't say. All he knew was that God, if He did in fact exist, was playing a very, very cruel joke at his expense.

His fingers threaded together where he lent across his desk, forehead pressed to the warm skin of his hands. Outside, the sounds of the wind and occasional passing car made it all the more difficult to concentrate. To add solid words to the clean white of the paper before him.

Not that it currently had many words on it to add to. He had been trying to come up with a topic for the past two weeks, cooped up in the generously sized bedroom of his parents' home. So far, no dice.

Except for one idea; a single word adorning the page beneath him. He supposed that was a start, a small smile coming to his lips as he pulled away from his hands, re-reading the artistically scribbled letters below.

 _'Sharks'_.

It wasn't much, but it was something. And at this point, David was beginning to feel gratitude for just 'something', as opposed to simply 'nothing'.

He did love sharks, and a non-fictional piece detailing the life and behaviour of the fish would be right up his street.

It wouldn't be an incredibly successful debut novel, however.     

At that thought, Webster buried his face in his hands once more, a long drawn-out groan echoing across the room. Finger combed frustratedly through his dark hair, his eyes finding their way up to stare longingly at the ceiling. As if the white paint would morph into some legible answer.

Again, no dice. He was left alone to his thoughts and growing anger, his own lack of creativity finally catching up to him.

It was something that, as Harvard's 'model student', he'd been able to stay ahead of until now. Where his classmates had the ability to conjure up intricate fantasies within their work, they had lacked technical skill. David had managed to outshine them, with his prowess in carefully crafted literature and persuasive writing style.

He was everything the lecturers could hope for. Disciplined, driven, focused. A real gem, raised on the finest quotations from Shakespeare and the soft tunes of Mozart.

But his good-breeding had apparently stifled the growth of his imagination, and it had overtaken him in this race to finish his degree. (As he always knew it would. Though he had chosen to ignore this fact, too caught up in the praise and admiration of those around him.)

His writing was 'perfect' and 'technically faultless'. It just wasn't a masterpiece.

Masterpieces required authors with flaws. With vices and imperfections and damaged souls that somehow created the ideal environment for beautiful artwork to flourish within.

Webster had none of the above. In _his_ opinion.

And it had come back to bite him in the behind, it seemed, taking his hopes of fame and glory with it as it hightailed away into the sunset. Au revoir and adieu. Kiss your dreams farewell.

Webster's head hit the desk's surface with a heavy thump. Another _louder_ groan echoed around his bedroom.

 

 

 

 

 

It haunted him that evening, as he sat with his parents at their ornate dining table, the soft scratching of Beethoven coming from the record player behind them.

David must have been pulling a face or at least looked glum, because as soon as his father left the room, his mother swooped down on him like a hawk. Her eyes had been on him for most of the meal, he'd noticed. Nothing slipped past her keen gaze, watching him beneath her furrowed brows and immaculate beehive hairdo.

" _David_ ," She began softly, and her son braced himself for the worst, "There's something wrong, darling. Please, tell me."

He was almost grateful she got right to the point. It avoided a lot of the awkward silence he had expected, which meant more time to talk about the issue. But his mother had always been like that, he mused, smiling tiredly at her across the table. A no-nonsense woman.

"Oh, nothing serious." A vague hand gesture accompanied the words, "Just...lacking in inspiration for my latest assignment."

If only it were that trivial. No, he was on the brink of a disaster in fact, could feel it at his throat. To save himself the embarrassment and disappointing eyes of his family, however, he'd stick to the understatement.

"Well, I'd expect not."

David's eyes snapped up to meet his mother's, who had sat back in her chair like she was explaining the obvious. He hoped she didn't notice how he held his breath, how his face lit up at the hope of a solution to his problem.

"There isn't much to write about here in a little place like Watertown." Webster felt an odd sensation in his chest, one that wasn't disappointment nor elation, "I wouldn't expect any aspiring author to think it an appropriate place to write such a key piece of literature in his life."

Confusion, he realised, was what his mother's words brought upon him. His eyes followed her desperately as he stood up from the table, gaze clinging to her prim floral dress as her hands began stacking their plates.

"It'll have to be Washington, however." She continued, and David had a sneaking suspicion she was talking more to herself than her son, "I won't have you running riot in any Detroit or Vegas city, wasting money - _never mind_ _valuable work time_ \- on booze and parties. And your uncle has been asking after you, wanting you to visit him over there... Yes, Washington is ideal. Having family nearby any apartment you may have is always a bonus."

Wondering if he'd missed a chunk of the conversation, despite being present the entire time, Webster could only swallow thickly as he silently watched his mother drift away into the kitchen. Not before stopping, however, and turning to look over her shoulder at him.

"You know, darling, I would have preferred if you'd asked sooner. We know you've been requesting a vacation, a place of your own, for a long time." As she disappeared around the corner, she added, "It would have been much easier if you'd simply been direct about it."

 

 

 

 

 

And, just like that, David had acquired an all-expenses paid trip to Washington DC, where he would remain for just under a year. 340 days, to be exact, in an apartment his parents had generously set him up with.

Not that he wasn't grateful, but Webster couldn't help but feel a little insulted by the decision. Mostly because it had been finalised after his open display of sadness in front of his family, which they had misinterpreted as him sulking like a spoilt child. Which could only be rectified, apparently, by them immediately presenting him with something he'd been asking them for. (Admittedly, he had been requesting permission to leave the house and travel on his own for several months, but it had been on his own terms. He'd intended to pay his own way, for one.)

David wasn't a child, he assured himself, watching the scenery flit effortlessly by the window.

He was a writer, an academic. An aspiring author and soon-to-be novelist. He was 21. Hardly a whining brat who thought that simply moping about in front of their parents would get them a free holiday.

So though he hadn't refused the trip to Washington DC, obviously; he had let his parents send him off with just a little bitterness in his heart. It only left him sitting alone in the train carriage, however, wondering how exactly he hoped to function in such a vast and powerful city.

Not that he doubted he could adjust, since living alone did have many understandable advantages. Far more free time to research his novel topic, for one, and a safe space to concentrate on the writing of said novel for another. A huge, glowing metropolis of potential inspiration for a third, and last - but not least - a fresh start for new and exciting life experiences he could quote in his future as an author, away from the prying eyes of his family.

And the booze and parties, of course. But Webster thought himself above that. He didn't have his Harvard friends to distract him, and fitting in with the local university applicants would be too time-consuming for his already busy schedule.

No, friends weren't important. His novel, that was his only true priority. Everything else was either an end to meet that goal, or a distraction.

And Lord knew he didn't need any distractions.


	2. Chapter 2

Washington DC was everything Webster had hoped it would be, and as distracting as he had hoped it wouldn't.

So distracting, in fact, that his most important priority of completing his novel - his one shot at the highway to greatness, if he remembered correctly - quickly fell through the mental list he'd made of things to do. It landed somewhere between climb to the top of the Washington monument and try a corn dog for the first time. (Both of which he proudly accomplished within the first month of staying in the extravagant city.)

Between the gleaming white trolley cars and unfamiliar state accents, David had lost the focus of his visit. Though he'd never admit it, he wondered if this was the apparent childishness that had gotten him there in the first place rearing its snot-nosed head. Or maybe he was thinking a little too much into it, being too harsh on himself.

He was a young man, after all; only 21. Released into the world and left to own devices for the first time, in some sense. His first solo flight from the nest. A curious chick aspiring to soar like a screaming eagle. Something like that.

1964 promised the best Christmas he'd ever had, and it didn't disappoint. After two months of exhausting himself exploring the city and its surroundings, the quiet time relaxing in his empty apartment was pure heaven. It was exactly what he'd always imagined for himself and it left him giddy inside.

He'd cooked himself up some bastardisation of a family dinner - scaled down for one, of course, he wasn't an animal. Artists thrived on their own independence. Then he'd sunk down into his modern leather couch and listened to the radio blasting a mix of old school carols and new age rock.

No Beethoven, no worries. And certainly no parents. It was bliss.

In retrospect, he really was acting like a child. Or possibly a dog, let off the lead for the first time to frolic in the mud of society.

Like a real poet in the making, living the humble beginnings of every true author. (With the financial support of the upper class, however.)

Buried under several beer bottles and a half-eaten pizza left over from the night before, Webster had stuffed himself stupid on the finest Christmas celebration he could have created. Alone with his thoughts, and content. What could be better than this?

He'd dragged himself off the couch and into his adjacent single bedroom soon afterwards, worming his way under the scratchy double covers and falling asleep with the radio still crackling. He forgot to check the window for snow. The sky outside was dark and the clock read 1am.

It was all too overwhelming, just too perfect. Time was silent as it ticked on by in the background.

 

 

 

 

Unfortunately for Webster, by the time he was actually awake and properly alert - it was New Year's day.

And his novel still contained only a single word on a crumpled piece of draft paper.

_'Sharks'_ glared back at him from the living room wall, pinned to the plaster's surface by several strips of tape. In his defence, the scribbled letters where now circled with bright red pen, completed with a bold question mark to one side of the ring. Apart from highlighting the single inspirational word, however, no other work had been done on the planning front.

Well, _it was a start_ , he supposed.

Standing before his motivation wall, pen and paper in hand, David was able to take a moment to stare blankly at his creation. At the acid green paintwork flaking from the plaster on an almost entirely blank canvas. Nothing more than a note torn from his draftbook taped to a surface.

Silently he took a step forward, squinting at the circled letter as he came within an inch of his penmanship.

Without a word, Webster let his forehead hit the wall with a groan.

 

 

 

 

January of 1965 brought frost down on the city, thawing out the winter months with crisp sunshine and steamy breath. Mornings greeted citizens with bright rays of light that reflected off grubby window panes, casting elegant shadows across downtown apartments like his. The radio rattled off last year's hits in a final farewell to the out-dated tunes.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

It left David rolling out of bed with a yell, arm beating frantically at the screeching alarm clock he had set for himself. His fingers finally managed to connect with the off button, the red digits flashing back to the current time in an instant. Not after cracking the plastic casing, however.

With a moan, he crawled back into bed. He was asleep a moment later.

 

 

 

 

Webster cradled the broken clock as he sat on the couch that afternoon, rolling the dented box between his hands. A cup of fresh coffee sat steaming on the low wooden table, rapidly cooling where it lay forgotten. Its maker only had eyes for the far wall by that point, staring lifelessly at the barely legible note taped to the plaster.

_'Sharks'_.

Hardly the topic of a masterpiece. But it was starting to look like his only option, this late in the game.

David's eyes glanced anxiously at the calendar hanging neatly to his left. Numbers and words stared back that made his heart plummet with despair.

January 5th, 1965.

Or, as he would later refer to it, the _Day of Reckoning._

Because the time he'd wasted getting to know Washington, sight-seeing and chatting idly with the local residents, had finally overtaken him. The dawning realisation that he now only had 10 months to write his debut novel had crept up against his back, sliding its clawed grip down his pants and giving him an atomic wedgy that would make even the toughest high school bully blush.

Something like that. Webster made a mental note to come up with a better analogy later. Craft something a little less crude and slightly more esteemed.

Right now, he needed to focus. To think, to brainstorm. Compile all of the skill and every scrap of information he'd learned into one final desperate push for victory.

Sitting in silence, with only the occasional car horn coming in through the window, David reached out and took a thick gulp of his coffee. It was cold as it ran down his throat, but he thought he deserved it. What with all the wandering and loitering and picture-taking he'd used up all his precious hours doing.

And what did he have to show for it? Absolutely _nothing_.

Nothing useful, anyway.

To his credit, Webster had constructed the perfect artistic environment for a budding author like himself. He folded his arms defensively across his chest, letting the empty coffee mug dangle from his fingers. A pout took his features as he nodded encouragingly, as if excusing himself from his own blunders. Which was all the success he'd had so far; _blunders_.

Back on the topic of environment, however; David was actually quite pleased with himself. His apartment was cosy and placed in an upmarket, edgy part of town. That in itself was an exciting start - what he'd done with his time there was just the icing on the metaphorical cake.

He'd explored what he considered to be the entirety of the city in his two months here so far. (In his own _professional_ opinion, as a 'resident' of Washington for a grand total of over 60 days.) He's made a memory map in his head and skirted out all the most important places for his writing. The quaint local pizza parlour, for one, where he was finding a few too many of his weekly meals. The right trolley car to take that would lead him towards the nearest University campus, just in case he needed to visit fellow intellectuals, for another. He was almost beginning to enjoy the cramped, jolting rides through the streets.

He'd photographed the dusty old diner a few blocks away too, with its flickering neon sign and constantly blaring jukebox. It was such a rugged looking place, a real gem for inspiration in Webster's incredible story he intended to write. ( _Title pending_ , of course.)

He'd never stepped foot inside, obviously, telling himself he had no time for such 'distractions'. Which was rich, even he admitted. Truthfully, he just didn't think he could stomach sitting inside alone. From fear of the unsavoury characters within rather than any loneliness, but he'd never admit that.

Poets in the making didn't fear anything. Not politics, not society, not authority. They were the artistic painters of the universe, the divine within the ordinary and mundane. And warriors of literature, for certain.

How David could still believe that baffled even him sometimes. He chose not to think too deeply about it, instead letting the stress and anxiety over his final project completely shroud his mind with its tight grip.

A quick glance at the broken clock in his hands revealed a helpful set of red numbers. 14:22. On January 5th, 1965. The last ditch hope of coming up with an alternate novel topic, that was what Webster had deemed this date. Leaving his writing any later would be the last nail in his coffin.

Slinging the clock back onto his bed, David shrugged his woollen blazer over his sweater - a light cream, to match the flowers beginning to sprout amongst the cities patches of grass - and headed for the door. Towards a frantic trolley ride and a desperate hope of success.

Which probably wasn't how Shakespeare would have found his inspiration for _Richard the Third_ , Webster thought, but he'd improvise.

 

 

 

 

Improvising wasn't his strong point. He realised this after about 4 hours of wandering Washington's streets, running into nothing but frosty cityscapes and dim street lighting. It was dark before he knew it and it was getting colder by the second.

And so far, no masterpiece had sprung to mind.

Hands shoved deep inside the tweed pockets of his pants, Webster glared aggressively at the sidewalk as he marched on through the capitol. He could feel the frown that had etched itself into his brow beginning to ache and strain his muscles. This only made said scowl deepen, frustrated with his own apparent weakness.

His shoes tapped quietly across the paving stones as he walked aimlessly through the sullen alleys of an unfamiliar neighbourhood, his mental navigation steadily guiding him back towards the trolley car stop. Not directly, his path twisting and turning down all sorts of foreign streets as his brain tried desperately to buy him more time. As if extending his route by another mile would be enough to trigger an epiphany.

It didn't matter, in truth. David knew there was no time left after the sun had set that evening, his eyes watching it go down from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial,  a desperate and pleading look in his eyes as the sky turned pink and the light began to fade.

_Where had he gone wrong?_

Excusing his blatant lack of self-control and poor time management, there really was no answer. Because even if he _had_ focused and brainstormed and spent every waking moment hunched over the paper at his desk, what would he have come up with?

The answer? _Nothing_. Just like he had now. No ideas, no narrative, no story.

No novel.

Raised voices echoed from another alley he passed. A cat shrieked out the way of a honking car. And Webster continued his aimless walk home, feet subconsciously picking up the pace as he gritted his teeth in annoyance. All these distractions were just getting boring now, no longer the terrific and exciting escape he'd originally thought them to be.

Groaning outwardly, the forsaken author pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes in frustration, still marching down the street in an angry daze.

It had all seemed so simple, to come up with a topic. But somehow he'd failed even that, left with only the word _'sharks'_ circled on a rotting piece of draft paper.

And it wasn't like he hadn't considered everything else.

Every possible trope, plot, and theme; he'd analyzed them all. Chewed them over in his head and spat them back out, before chewing them over a second time. And a third, and a fourth. Rinse and repeat. Yet few interested him, and absolutely _none_ had what it would take to leave his professor in awe.

A fantasy adventure into another world? No, too childish. A romance narrative about star-crossed lovers? No, too boring. A political realism piece ragging on the world today? No, too obvious.

Science fiction? Too silly. Mystery? Too overdone. Horror? Not for an English major, that was for sure.

And even if he chose one of those terrible, terrible clichés, what would he do then? He couldn't come up with a fictional plot to save his sweater-sporting hide if his life depended on it.

As David rubbed his eyes, the world around him blocked out by the warmth of his hands and his own angry mumbling, he finally submitted himself to the inevitable. He let out a sigh and gave in to what he always had an inclination would happen, realising he had no other options but to follow the handwritten prophesy taped to his wall.

He was going to write about sharks, and kiss his hopes of ever completing a debut masterpiece goodbye. He'd get an average grade on his average book piece, finish with an average degree in English and go on to get an average job working for some average joe in an average bookstore. What a fucking joke.

The knowledge that he was giving up his dreams to the trash hit him like a ton of bricks, sending a sudden pain flooding through his torso. It slammed into his chest and left him winded, reeling from the emotions of knowing he had failed in his quest to take the world by storm.

Or maybe it was the body of the man he'd just walked straight into that had caused that. Webster couldn't tell, too shocked to think, breathing heavily as he tried to straighten back up and find his footing on the sidewalk.

Something about the glare the stranger gave him from the floor made David think he might never find his footing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so after a little more brooding, spoilt webster, things have finally started happening! thank you for supporting this, guys, i'm having a blast writing it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see!

After a stunned moment of silence, the natural good-breeding reignited in David's mind. He blinked in a startled manner - a little too dramatically, even for his tastes - trying to appear surprised. Rather than just irritated by the rude interruption of his sombre spiral into despair.

As if he hadn't been the one walking aimlessly with his eyes covered.

"I'm very sorry," He tried kindly, moving to extend his hand to the stranger, "I was just-"

A sharp sting and David flinched, pulling his hand back as if he'd been bitten. Which he sincerely hoped wasn't actually the case as the anonymous man scrambled to his feet, snarling through his teeth.

"Watch where y'going!" The stranger spat, the heavy footfalls of his boots crowding him to within an inch of Webster's face, the smell of beer and cigarettes leaving him weak at the knees.

A pathetic stutter managed to escape the author before he was crudely shoved aside, his assailant taking off down the street once he had successfully shouldered by.

It was all a little too much for David, his thoughts reeling as he turned to stare after the man in a flustered daze. A literal slap on the wrist (or rather, hand.) was the feeling soaking Webster's mind as he wiped the flecks of spit from his cheek. He took up an expression of disgust as he mourned the cuffs of his sweater, now sullied with that thug's saliva.

"A-And good-evening to you too!" The courage came a little too late as he shouted aimlessly down the now empty road. "I'll be sure to check up on you later, pal!"

Had he been a little more self-aware, David wouldn't have chosen those exact words to use in his retaliation. No, something stronger, less sarcastic might have spared him considerable trouble in the future.

It might also have cost him the most important relationship of his life. Who could know, with humanity being such terrible fortune tellers. Not he, for sure, as learned and scholarly as he was.

But as the new set of heavy footsteps closed in behind him and a rough hand snagged his shoulder, David was positive, in that moment, that he had made the wrong decision.

"Friend 'a yours, is he?" Whatever _'thug'_ he'd thought the previous stranger to be, it paled in comparison to the beast who spun Webster to face him.

The sight was comparable to an ogre, of sorts, only with tanned skin instead of green and breath that reeked of gin rather than swamp water. (Not that Webster knew the difference.)  Although once he drew a breath to speak, David found he took that second thought back. There was definitely a strong aftertaste of swamp hanging around the man.

The grip knotted into his sweater tightened as Webster failed to answer, and one glance at the poor tearing fibres was enough to drive the point home. "No- Er- I don't know him! He just bumped into me, ha ha."

It was a breathless and snivelling excuse to the beer stained monster who held him, but in David's mind it sounded perfectly reasonable. What the _fat slob_ , with his sweat-drenched tank top and uneven buzz-cut hair, didn't grasp was the concept of coincidental events. A string of random occurrences that seemed too impossible to not have a common link.

Like Webster being the fleeing man's friend, coming to help him. As opposed to a complete, and total, stranger - who had absolutely nothing to do with the whole situation.

_Ah._

Phrased in those terms, Webster found he couldn't blame the brute for his misconception. He couldn't forgive his odour however, and felt himself about to comment on it. It was like an itch, begging to be scratched with cool words. Wittiness was his incurable disease, and he'd suffered for it greatly in the past.

"Somethin' funny, pretty boy?"

Thankfully, it didn't seem like he'd get a chance to let his remarks run free. (Though David assured himself that, had he let rip, the results would have been scathing.) He was too busy being shaken by the collar, the meaty fingers digging through his sweater and tugging it apart at the threads.

"I don't know him, honest!" Webster tried once again, all the while quietly attempting to squirm out of the man's grip, "I was just walking home-"

"Bullshit." It was more of a grunt than a curse, though it gained the approval of the ogre's minions. They were just as ghastly a bunch, much to David's expectations as he glanced at each of the individuals.

All with varying styles of crosses dangling from their necks and military haircuts so short they'd make his grandfather cringe. Middle aged, too, very unlike the young man who'd crashed into him earlier. Men who could be his father, had his father conquested some bar-wench before the age of 20 and raised the booze-sucking unhappy accident that followed well enough to cheat his way into Harvard.

His hair had been rather immaculate, David noted sparingly. The first stranger, not the brute. Combed and slicked with some kind of product, the few strands free to cross those dark eyes let loose from running.

Not that David cared, of course. He'd just been unfortunately close-up to the man's face.

And now he was unfortunately close-up to this ogre's face, which was contorted in misplaced anger.

"You high, kid?!" A violent shake caused Webster to snap back to the present reality, letting out a noise of pain as he was drawn back and away from the fiery gaze he'd been lost in, "You think fuckin' around with us is funny?"

_'No, sir'_ might have been the best advised response. Wit was a cruel illness to be afflicted with, however.

"I don't think anyone _fucking_ around with you would be funny," David mused, eyebrows rising in a contemplative gesture, "I think it be rather disgusting to watch, let alone participate in."

It took a moment for the slow burn to sink through the beast's thick skin.

Enough of a pause for the slim author to finally give up attempting to save his forsaken sweater, and instead opting for the quick and effective slip-escape. Arms up, knees bent, garment removed. The night air felt chilly through his thin shirt sleeves, but at least he was free from his knitted prison. Adieu, sweater vest, you served valiantly.

And with that David was staggering backwards, loafers skidding on the unfamiliar ground as he attempted to put some distance between  him and his assailants. Heart pounding at a speed he hadn't thought possible under such immaculate clothing, Webster tore away from the scene, spinning on his heel and breaking into a sprint.

Sprint wouldn't be considered the most accurate term. That particular verb was mostly reserved for athletes, professionals who took the time to learn and perfect their technique, puppeteering their imperfect human bodies to be as fast and efficient as possible. Similar to the shark, streamlined in their design to be swift in the water, as they went in for their unsuspecting prey.

If athletes were comparable to sharks in their movements, then what David Webster looked like hurtling down the sidewalk was more of a misshapen seal. And not a seal gracefully gliding through the water either. No, the kind of seal that had strayed too far inland and was now trying desperately to lumber away from a group of ravenous wolves.

Wolves that were gaining on him, too.

The curses exploded from behind him as David ran, not daring to stop and look back, drawing in ragged breaths like his life depended on it. He didn't doubt that it did, if the glint of knives hadn't been his imagination, and putting one foot in front of the other became his sole priority. His gospel, his pier de resistance.

Webster silently cursed himself for his inability to turn off the author within him. It had a habit of flaring up at the worst of moments.

Just as he had resigned himself to a failed novel, he found himself resigning himself to his fate here also. The pounding of his feet had begun to slow, his legs starting to tire. He wasn't even sure where he was, having simply turned tail and ran. The night sky gave little indication, only stars lighting his way.

And the wolves drew ever closer, second by second. Close enough now for David to hear the clatter and jangle of their crucifix chains. Eyes turned to the heavens as his chest heaved, he prayed tearily for a miracle. He didn't want it to end this way.

He was too much of an untapped well of potential to be found face down in a sewer, his handsome face beaten beyond recognition.

He still had to write his novel.

At least, a twisted logic reminded him as the strain on his muscles grew too great for him to continue, if you die tonight you won't have to turn in a failed paper. You won't write an unsuccessful book because you won't have to write a book at all.

It was a terrible thought, but it helped. Gave him an awful sense of peace as David doubled over in pain, hands on his thighs and mouth gasping for air. Blinking only brought tears of exhaustion and frustration to his eyes as he looked over his shoulder, wanting to face the onslaught at least somewhat. A valiant last stand, if you will.

The wolves approached, the yards between them disappearing under their pounding feet.

The little seal awaited his doom with a  whimper, squinting in the sudden bright moonlight.

A sudden bright moonlight not sent from the sky, but from the fast approaching headlight of a speeding vehicle.

David's miracle was answered that day, he was certain of it. God had sent an angel. A roaring, cursing, avenging angel on a flaming steed.

The pounding of the thugs' boots slowed as they shielded their eyes, grunting as they were assaulted by the headlight. The white glare illuminated their features to the on looking Webster, his head turning in awe as he squinted against the powerful beam. He could barely hear the shouting through the roar of the motorcycle's engine, unable to understand what the newly arrived figure was telling him to do.

A strong grip on his arms dragged him in the right direction, tugging him out of the headlight's beam and over to the driver. Face-to-face with the fiery stranger who had caused him such trouble. Only this time there was no pause to admire the man's features as the spit began flying, the anonymous driver screaming at him across the tiny space.

"Get on, _pretty boy_!"

Taking offense to the term, David opened his mouth to remind this stranger of his place.

_Firstly_ , Webster was no child. He was a man, a distinguished graduate of one of their country's finest teaching establishments. (Confirmation pending.) His intellectual skill and potential to shape the literary future was incomprehensible to this yokel, who only seemed to understand the language of a revving bike engine.

This rant was summed up in the author's cutting response, intended to come up as _'I have a name, you know_. _'_ All that came to fruition was a squeak of fear as the thugs hollered back into action, finally awakened from their moonlit daze, and the hands on him suddenly became much more insistent. Rough, almost.

David chose not to attempt a description of the feelings the motion installed in him, focused instead on the vibrating saddle between his thighs and the screeching of tires on the road.

The motorbike roared as the stranger twisted its throttle, revving the beast to its max and jerking them into a violent getaway. Amidst the tire smoke and coughing of the disappearing thugs, Webster managed to wrap his arms around the driver's stomach, knuckles white where his fingers buried themselves into the accompanying dirty t-shirt.

Wind rushing through his locks, the engine maintaining its arrogant roar, the author could only hide his face in the unfamiliar back he clung to. Forehead to bear skin, perfectly placed to sit comfortably against the man's spine as they both trembled atop their steed's powerful body. Leather tickled the hairs of David's arms, and he cracked open an eye to glance down at the offending item.

Despite the blurring forms of rapidly passing streetlights, angelic streams of gold against the night sky, Webster could only focus himself enough to study the stranger he held onto so dearly. The one he had his legs either side of, the tweed of his pants rubbing against course denim and a thick belt. Leather, just like the jacket wrapped lopsidedly around the man's waist. Greased hair whipping under the speed of their drive, hands gripping the machine's throttles and never letting up.

The heat against his chest and the trembling of the seat beneath his backside should have calmed the author's pounding heartbeat. Yet, if the thumping in his ears was anything to go by, it was only keeping up that lethal pace. David was sure he'd keel over if he had to put up with another second of this daring escapade.

Red traffic signals spared him the embarrassment, slowing them down to a crawl as they waited at the intersection. A curiously law-abiding move for such an apparent scoundrel, Webster had to wonder.

He stopped wondering as the stranger landed one foot on the road, steadying his mount as he reached into the pocket of his leather jacket. As casually as a veteran professor, the man placed a cigarette between his teeth, flicking the lighter he produced with it. Sparks flew as the zippo sent the smoke twirling into life, the unknown character never once glancing up at the lights.

Nor back at the author staring, bewitched, by his actions. Eyes wide as a child, arms still tightly gripping the stranger's waist. Not that the driver seemed to mind, shoving the lighter back in his jacket and letting himself enjoy a slow drag of his smoke.

"Where y'live?" He asked, looking up at the streetlights with a frown.

At least, Webster presumed it to be a frown. He could see little more than the man's strong jaw line and wind-swept hair from this angle. Captivating, _yes_ , but he longed to see more. Preferably from a more detailed position.

" _Hey_." The sharp snap and sudden brown eyes burning into his had David's heart in his throat, "You awake, pretty boy?"

"Y-Yes." Was all his brilliant mind could reply with, the red halo around the stranger's head switching to a bright amber. "I-I live on the Westside, couple of blocks from the diner..."

Somehow he managed to rattle off his address before the light flashed green. Even more extraordinarily, the mysterious man nodded his understanding long before that, flicking his cigarette away into the street the moment he heard David utter the word _'diner'_.

"You're in luck then, pretty boy." This time, Webster only mentally corrected him, "You're goin' my way."

Tires whirred as the driver kicked his foot off the street. Before he could speed up however, the engine purring beneath their legs, he took the time to glance over his shoulder. To flash a toothy smirk at the stunned figure at his back.

"An' loosen up the death-grip, will ya'?"

A mumbled apology fell from David's lips as he realised he'd still been tightly squeezing the man's stomach for safety. Momentarily relaxing his hold proved futile though, as the bike roared and sped away a second later. Webster was sure he felt the stranger laughing at him as he squeaked and hugged the man close once more, clinging to his warm torso as they drove into the night.

 

 

 

 

 

It seemed almost like a dream, as corny and disgustingly overused as that seemed.

David barely remembered clambering off the motorcycle's saddle, legs trembling as he stared dazedly at its gleaming handlebars and glaring headlight. The worn leather of the seat shifted and suddenly the stranger's face was in his line of sight, frowning deeply at his confused expression.

That face haunted him like any nightmare would, even after the bike sped away and he stumbled up the steps into his apartment. He didn't remember falling asleep, only that one moment he was standing over the couch and the next he was blinking himself awake to the chirping of birds and warm midday sunshine.

Foggy glass dulled the bright rays as Webster rolled off his makeshift bed with a groan. Somehow finding his feet, he dragged himself - and the blanket he had curled up in - over to the small kitchen he had come to call his own. Thick cover draped around his shoulders like an aging king (he preferred this description to _drunken hobo_.) David sloppily threw together a mug of coffee. He ignored the spillage of milk in favour of leaning on the counter and merely staring blindly into the liquid. China clinked as he twirled his spoon around and around, creating his own tiny whirlpool in the drink's centre.

He could still see that stranger's face. And he knew something so irritatingly captivating could never have been a dream.

And _unlike_ a dream, no fantasy motorcycle escape in his mind could leave him as sore on the backside as this very real one. Rubbing his offended muscles, David screwed his eyes shut under his palm, rubbing furiously at the skin of his eyelids.

_No dice_ \- the images of the previous night flashed before him in unforgiving technicolor. Drawing him in, stealing all focus away from his responsibilities. The nagging reminder that today was the start of his writing career, the deadline to begin stealing the hearts of audiences everywhere with his completely uninspiring book about sharklife.

Those brown eyes and predatory smirk just wouldn't let go. Not even when he cranked the dial on the radio, letting the thumping tunes of whatever scratchy record the station had chosen blare into his apartment. His mind was a well, with last night at the centre and everything else merely slipping away to the pit within.

Webster's unseeing gaze finally came back into focus as he saw the calendar hanging on the wall.  The circled deadline of yesterday's date shone in bright red marker.

_Janruary 6th, 1965_ , stood out just as menacingly next to it, even without the blood-coloured highlight.

David found himself watching that near-empty wall. The one so dark and void of ideas, bursting with inspiration untapped by his great mind, hindered by a weak will. The faded tape holding his single shred of creativity - the note labelled _'sharks'_ \- finally peeled away in defeat. The draft paper floated aimlessly down to the floorboards, leaving the wall colder still.

Only the calendar remained. His sole achievement, plastered for all to see.

Approaching the large spread of blank wall, Webster bent down to retrieve his battered pride. And the battered note paper too, snatching it up from where it had fallen. Poised to push the stubborn tape back into place, praying it would hold this time, David glanced at the calendar.

The circled date - yesterday's date - stared back.

The most exciting night of his life.

The most _exciting night_. Featured in _his life_.

_His_ life.

The coffee table was knocked violently on its side as Webster crashed across the room, slipping on his blanket and having to catch himself on the couch. Kingly cover discarded on the floor, leaving him in last night's wrinkled shirt and dirty pants, he scrambled for his desk. Flinging draw after draw aside until he could grab hold of his treasure, his objective.

The notepad fell to the desk's surface with a slam, opening out to its first virgin page. Illuminated in the window's warm glow like the gospel he knew it to be. David could barely contain his fingers' trembling as he scrawled the words furiously across the page, the ink smearing slightly in his haste.

With a sharp exhale, he straightened up, panting from the exertion as he stared manically down at his creation. His _legacy_ , his holy scripture.

His _Richard the Third_.

The uncommonly messy penmanship stared back, fresh ink glistening in the sunlight.

_1965._

_A debut semi-autobiographical novel by David Kenyon Webster._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, this story properly begins. Enjoy and thank you if you're still around for this!

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr tag for this fic](http://malarked.tumblr.com/tagged/1965-by-DKW)


End file.
